Don Rickles at Elaine’s, a Recurring Act

Don Rickles leaned over our table at Elaine’s and pointed at an attractive blonde. “Are you a hooker?!” he asked. The whole group — a couple of actors, a comedian (the blonde), Elaine Kaufman and I — broke into laughter.

On the first occasion, in 2006, he came in with his wife, Barbara, after a show on Long Island. It was about 11 p.m. on a quiet Sunday. As they passed by Table 4, Elaine got up to give him a hug.

They embraced, and Mr. Rickles didn’t miss a beat. He pointed at the man to her left and scolded him: “Get away from her!” he said. “We’ve been sleeping together for 40 years!”

Then Mr. Rickles stuck his finger out at someone else at the table. “You’re great,” he said, and quickly pointed back toward the man on Elaine’s left. “Get rid of him!”

That’s when Mr. Warmth addressed Helene Gresser, the blonde, across the table, inquiring as to her profession. He left us in stitches. Then he and Barbara retreated to the back for dinner with another couple.

Over the next hour or so, our group ate, drank and reminisced about Mr. Rickles’s work, which some of us had enjoyed for well over three decades.

It was clear that Mr. Warmth — who looked surprisingly like the maniacal baldheaded guy I’ll always associate with 1970s TV land — was still prone to delivering hilarious insults so outrageous that they really were compliments.

His demeanor during dinner showed a quiet side. Yet he would not disappoint.

As the couple prepared to leave, he walked up to our table and immediately started into another story: “I ran into Newhart the other night,” he began. He followed that up with a joke that also involved Sinatra that I can’t remember. We were laughing too hard.

I asked him why I couldn’t watch “C.P.O. Sharkey,” a hilarious 1970s show that he starred in, in reruns.

Gesturing wildly with his arms, the veins on his head just about to pop, he exclaimed, “Because it’s over! It’s over!”

At some point Elaine told him I was an editor at The Times.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “Kiss his ass?”

Then he walked up to me, leaned over, put his arms around me and said, “You guys better be nice to Israel!”

While his wife waited outside, Mr. Rickles worked the bar.

“Hello ladies,” he said to two women dressed in bright clothing. “What are you doing here tonight? Somebody steal your corner?”

Then he handed Alex, the bartender, a $20 bill and said, “Thanks, pal.”

That wasn’t the last time I ran into Mr. Rickles at Elaine’s. (Elaine, who died in December 2010, would tip me off that he’d be there.)

On one occasion, he made light of my less-than-svelte physique, exclaiming, “He looks like a longshoreman!”

On another, as he finished dinner at the next table and prepared to leave, he addressed me, saying, “I hear you’re big here.”

The last time I saw him, I had read his autobiography, written with David Ritz and aptly titled “Rickles’ Book.” Elaine asked me to sit down with her, Rickles and his wife, and I told him how much I had enjoyed the book. He graciously inscribed my copy.

But that first time I saw him at Elaine’s was the best.

Just as he was about to leave — after he had insulted the women at the bar and tipped the bartender — Mr. Rickles stood at the front door and turned around. He stuck his arms out, scrunched up his face in mock horror, and exclaimed, “Elaine looked lovely tonight.” Then he turned around and walked out.